


Victory is in the Qun, and all that.

by carrionqueen (nightquill)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/carrionqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men breaking their leashes for the first time in decades. Bull philosophizes, and Cullen finds a friend with a common struggle. Rated M for some rowdy bar-talk on Bull's end of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory is in the Qun, and all that.

Cullen is eyebrows deep in a tankard by the time the Bull saunters into the tavern. The Commander wants to drink alone - hunched shoulders, knees tucked toward the wall, the _surliest_ expression the Iron Bull's ever seen - but now is not a good time for that. It's not like the Iron Bull doesn't respect people's boundaries, it's just that, sometimes, he knows better.

"Commander," he rumbles, sitting.  Cullen looks up sourly, but his features swiftly slip into something more amicable. _Good._ The Bull smiles. "Sorry to interrupt. Do you mind?" He gestures to his seat and Cullen, nursing his drink, just nods.

"It's fine, Bull. How’s it going with that formation we've been talking about?" his voice is strained. There's sweat beading on his forehead, a little shake to his hand. The Commander's coming apart. _Less good._ "I heard you drilling your men in the yard. You've got their respect," he's just talking now, filling the silence -- Bull flashes a grin at the girl who brings his drink and sends her off with a pat on the bum, but his expression sobers as he turns to the Commander.

"Hey, are you doing okay?"

Cullen's eyes narrow, then hurry to look at anything that's _not_ the qunari. "What? I'm fine." He is wolfish when he's prodded. Bull grins again.

"You're not. Cullen - don't push people away. This isn't going to be something you can do on your own."

Cullen's brown eyes narrow further, fist clenching about the handle on his tankard. Bull can see it's barely half empty. "I’m not quite sure what you're talking about," his voice is cooler, now, and his back straightens. _Don’t go. Not yet._

"Bullshit, Cullen. The others don't see it but you forget, I’m Ben-Hassrath. It’s my job to see things that people try to hide.” Cullen is blushing a little, and Bull hurts for him. _Shit._ It wasn’t supposed to be this weird… “You know it’s okay, don't you?" his voice is low, but clear. "It’s okay to struggle."

And then he laughs. _Those_ words coming from _his_ mouth _. It’s okay to struggle._ Funny how easily he can say it to someone else but when he thinks those words himself he feels it _burning_ , feels it like a brand on his chest. _Struggle is an illusion. Victory is in the Qun._ And all that.

Cullen releases his tankard, places his hands palm down on the table. A weight comes off him and then he's laughing, too. "I, ah, I think I missed the joke, but, Maker. I’m... glad you know." _It’s good to laugh._ He doesn’t say those words but Bull can hear them.

"I know a lot of things, Commander. For example," he takes a deep pull of the ale, cold and bitter on his tongue, "I know that red-head over there likes to have his ass eaten. And the old quartermaster - Threnn? She’s happy to call me an oxman and scowl at me in the yard but the minute you pin her against a wall she just… _blooms._ Like a flower." he grins, and Cullen’s ears are going red. He’s laughing again. "I also know what it's like, to... to break a leash,"

And then they're both sober, somber, and Cullen sips at his warm beer, nose wrinkling at the taste. Bull knows the Commander rarely drinks, knows this is just some kind of crutch to help him shake a habit. Bull knows a lot of things. 

"Do... are there templars, in Qunandar?"

Bull shakes his head. "Naw. We have a similar duty, sort of - the Arvaarads control our mages, who are basically just living weapons under the Qun. But the Arvaarads don't take lyrium, so they’re not really a fair comparison." he strokes his stubble, adjusts his eye patch. "The Qun wouldn't stand for lyrium, not the way the Chantry wields it. Any kind of substance dependency is seen as, well, ultimate weakness."

Cullen’s face sours - his eyes drop dull, a little, and Bull hurries to correct himself. "But that's the Qun, isn't it? The Qun... provides certainty, but it isn't the only way to see the world. I’m learning that. It’s hard. Under the Qun, someone like you… your strength, your force of will, would never be appreciated. It’d be seen as a futile struggle that gains you nothing but pain. And that's bullshit, don't you think?"

The commander mulls the words over, takes another sip before answering. His words are slow, thoughtful. "I don't know. Is it bullshit? I’m burning myself out, Bull - and I’m risking a lot more than just my own health in the process. Is that not selfish?"

"Do you think _I’m_ selfish for choosing to save my men - my _friends_ \- over my service to the Qun?"

"How is that even relevant?"

Bull laughs, and he realizes that Cullen’s more like a doglike than wolfish. It’s endearing. It’s… incredibly Ferelden. _Should have seen_ that _sooner_. "Is it selfish to struggle against your leash - to break it - when you know it's leading you astray? Or is it noble? What’s more important here - your own moral code, or decades of teachings that force you to think otherwise? Who is right? You? Your Chantry? The Qun?"

And then it’s silent. One of those moments where everyone in the tavern just lapsed into contemplativeness. Maryden plucks some absent notes on her lute, and the barman coughs as he twists his dirty rag about the inside of a mug. Someone makes a joke; the table in the corner erupts into giggles. Bull can hear Cole, humming songs under his breath, all the way on the top floor. Sera’s bitching at pigeons again. The sound rolls back in, like the tide - _the tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless_ – and Cullen is still pondering the question.

Maryden is half-way into one of her newest compositions by the time he finally speaks.  “Is there an answer to any of that?”

The Iron Bull shakes his head with a smile, clinks the rim of his tankard against Cullen’s. “If you figure it out, let me know.”


End file.
